


the boy who cried wolf

by shrugs



Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Gen, Humor, M/M, eventual Thommy, gratuitous ridiculousness, jimmy gets hella pranked, my adverb usage is becoming a problem, this is a real work in progress alright, whodoneit? probably thomas
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-07-09
Updated: 2016-07-10
Packaged: 2018-07-22 10:25:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,939
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7432714
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shrugs/pseuds/shrugs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Someone has been pranking Jimmy. It's probably Barrow. Jimmy is sure, until he's not so sure, and then the innocent pranks turn not-so-innocent and Jimmy's at risk of being fired. It's a bad week. /probably won't update anytime soon! sorry!/</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. in which the pranks begin and jimmy is flustered.

It starts with Jimmy’s collection. 

One completely unordinary day in March, Jimmy wakes up to find the entire box upturned and its contents scattered across the room. It’s strange, because the collection is under his bed, and he’s sure he doesn’t squirm so much in his sleep that it could even open the box, never mind cause a small tornado. 

Jimmy hauls himself out of bed, feet cold on the floor, and starts hobbling about picking up the newspaper clippings and assorted tickets. His hair falls into his face periodically and Jimmy has to develop a pattern: stoop, pick up clipping, shake hair back, stand. He does this to retrieve yet another Rudolph Valentino clipping (What can he say? The man’s has talent. And, of course, his looks. Not that Jimmy… looks). As soon as he’s finished picking up the clippings, he hears the door down the hall slam. It’s his turn to wash up. Jimmy storms out of the room, kicking the now-full box underneath his bed. 

“Maybe it were leprechauns,” Alfred offers helpfully over breakfast.

Jimmy fumes. “Leprechauns? Alfred, if you’re a leprechaun, you’re the most grotesquely tall leprechaun that ever was.” 

He’s quite proud of himself for not saying something ruder. Alfred did go through his things, after all. But Carson’s been on his back about language all week.

“He’s got the right hair for it, though,” Daisy says thoughtfully, reaching across Jimmy to clear his place.

Jimmy shakes his head. “He’s not clever enough. Clearly, since he thought it a good idea to rifle through my intimate possessions.” 

“Intimate possessions?” Bates asks with a chuckle. “What a very serious accusation.” 

“I swear, I didn’t touch your things, alright? I’ve been fast asleep all night!” Alfred cries, distraught. 

“I did hear ‘im snoring,” Molesly offers. Both Jimmy and Alfred give him a glare.

Alfred turns back to Jimmy. “And, really, if I did sneak about your room at night, you would’ve heard me.”

“Not necessarily,” Jimmy mutters. “It’s been done before, and I didn’t hear a thing till it were too late.”

He sneaks a glance at Barrow, but the other man is reading his newspaper and not paying the slightest bit of attention. For some reason, this annoys Jimmy. When he shoots an arrow, he wants to be sure it hit its mark.

“Well, it weren’t me.” Alfred says firmly. “Probably just the wind.”

“The wind opened a box underneath of my bed and got its contents stuck in my wall?” Jimmy asks.

Alfred shrugs, helpless.

Jimmy is seething. He despises the thought of people going through his things. And, of course, seeing how many photographs of Rudolph Valentino he possesses.

“Maybe you did it yourself,” Ivy offers, her cheeks coloring when Jimmy raises an eyebrow at her. “I mean,” She continues, “You could have sleepwalked. It’s a common condition.”

“I had a cousin who walked in her sleep,” Molesly offers. “Though, myself, I used to talk in my sleep, say odd things.”

“Like what?” Baxter asks, leaning forward, either with genuine interest or acting skill that has Jimmy jealous. With that, the conversation changes and Jimmy’s brooding is interrupted by laughter and the clanging of tableware.

When Carson leaves the room, everybody disperses except for Jimmy and Barrow. This is the perfect time for Jimmy to interrogate him about the box. He scoots down to the end of the table, hands underneath his thighs. Barrow hasn’t finished his newspaper quite yet, choosing a lazy start to the morning.

“So,” Jimmy clears his throat. “Mr. Barrow. I wanted to ask you a question.”

“I’m listening,” Barrow replies out of the corner of his mouth, eyes still fixed on the paper.

Jimmy frowns. “Have you ever… you know, walked about in your sleep?”

Barrow folds down his paper and stares Jimmy square in the face with a gaze that could wilt lilies.

“No. I sleep like the dead.”

Jimmy knows he’s lying. “You sure? Never even… let’s say, poked about someone else’s things? Whilst asleep?”

He’s pushing it, he can tell by the way Barrow’s brows narrow and he tilts his chin down. What an angular chin, too. Nothing Valentino could hold a flame to.

Where on earth did that thought come from?

“No.” Barrow says shortly. “And I didn’t come into anyone’s room last night, never mind yours.”

Jimmy sighs. “It was you. I would’ve woken up if it were Alfred. He breathes too loud.”

“Think what you like. It wasn’t me.” Barrow says, and moves to get up.

Jimmy stands, suddenly angry. “Well, if you didn’t do it, then no one else could have!”

“Right,” says Barrow. “In that case, must be the leprechauns.”

Jimmy’s face burns, because he detests being patronized. He’s about to retort, wittily, mind you, but Barrow’s already out of the door. And Jimmy is late to silver-polishing.

Luckily, it happens out in the courtyard, so Carson doesn’t see a thing. For once, it’s Jimmy and Alfred out. They’re talking about girls. Well, Alfred’s talking about Ivy. Jimmy’s talking about Lillian Gish. It’s all very manly, except for how Alfred’s so pale that his face gets red if he even so much as thinks the word “girls”. The blushing makes it a little less manly. Jimmy likes to think his presence makes up for that, though.

Alfred’s voice has gone all sappy. “And I think- well, it’s just- the way her eyes light up when she’s talking about cookin’, or- did I tell you just the other day I went to hand her a turnip and our hands brushed? She’s got the softest hands.”

“Alfred, have I ever told you you’re a total sod?” Jimmy asks, almost serious.

It’s just then that the window above them opens- Alfred’s window, Jimmy realizes, since they’re right outside the servants’ quarters, and his must be the one to the right.

Alfred glares up at it, shielding his reddened face from the sun. “What? Is that my window? Who’s up there?”

Jimmy shrugs, palming his pockets for a cigarette. “Who cares? Probably one of the girls dusting or something like.”

He finds a cigarette and is about to light up when he’s hit in the face. The first thing he notices is a pleasant smell, like lavender or bath salts. The second thought is that the thing is soft. Silky, almost. And yes, in fact, whatever has landed on him is silk, which he discovers after lifting the offending article off of his face to examine it.

“It” is drawers. Ladies’ drawers. Rather large ladies’ undergarments. Jimmy holds the garment away from him, face contorted in both awe and disgust. Alfred’s already started wheezing, and Jimmy wishes the pants had landed on Alfred’s face just to cover up his ugly mug.

“Sod off!” Jimmy splutters “Are these your pants?”

“What?” Alfred straightens up. “No! Why?”

“They fell right out of your window!” Jimmy leaps forward, grinning, now holding the silk pants right in Alfred’s face. “What kind of pervert are you, Alfred?”

Alfred snorts. “I’m no pervert! You’re the one holding the dirty pants.”

“Dirty? They’re not dirty,” Jimmy says, and before he even thinks about it raises the pants to his nose for another whiff of lavender.

This is when Mrs. Patmore opens the door to sweep crumbs out of a dustpan, and this is what she sees:

Jimmy, looking pensive, holding her favorite drawers up to his nose and inhaling. Alfred, face red as a pepper, standing with his mouth wide open, backing away in apprehension.

Mrs. Patmore shrieks.

After an exceedingly long chat with Carson- “It’s not my fault the pants fell on me! They fell from Alfred’s window!”

“We can’t be sure where they fell from- at least I didn’t sniff them!”

“I didn’t know they were Mrs. Patmore’s! If I had, I wouldn’t have sniffed them!”

Mrs. Patmore, at this point, is in tears, being comforted by a Mrs. Hughes whose face is an alarming shade of puce. If Jimmy didn’t know her as stern, he would’ve sworn that she was holding back laughter.

What happens next is nothing short of an inquisition, Carson style.

Bates doesn’t take it very seriously. “What, someone disturbed your intimate possessions so you decided to steal theirs? For shame, Jimmy.”

Anna blushes. “I’m sure glad it weren’t my drawers. Though I can provide an alibi for Mr. Bates and I- we were in our cottage, having a bit of lunch. I did have Mrs. Patmore bring some milk down, so I think that counts her out as well.”

Jimmy likes Anna, but Mr. Carson does too, and so takes her pronouncement of innocence to heart and moves on.

Baxter is sympathetic. “Poor Mrs. Patmore. I’d hate to have to face this lot after all that. Well, I can say that I was in her Ladyship’s room at the time. Good luck on the investigation.”

Jimmy thinks she sounds dodgy, but investigations aren’t comfortable for anyone, so he lets it go, as does Carson.

Ivy and Daisy are in fits. Ivy manages to wheeze out a- “were in the kitchen!” before breaking down in laughter. Carson believes them if only for the reason that they looked surprised upon receiving this news. Daisy can’t look Jimmy or Alfred in the eye without snorting into her shirtsleeve.

Carson doesn’t even ask Mrs. Hughes, which Jimmy thinks is unfair. Of course, after the rest of the staff are investigated sans Jimmy-and-Alfred, who are confined to Carson’s office for a good part of the day, there’s only one person left to ask.

Barrow.

Jimmy knows it was him. He must have something on Jimmy- or Jimmy owes him after Barrow did, admittedly, save his life last year. Though Jimmy’s sure he could have taken on those blokes alone had he not been so, well, incapacitated.

It was Barrow. Barrow broke into Jimmy’s room again. And dropped Mrs. Patmore’s underthings right onto Jimmy’s head. The man has almost certainly been pranking him. Jimmy would think it was funny if he wasn’t so sure he didn’t deserve it.

Carson puts the question right out there, in typical Carson fashion, just as he had done with the rest of the suspects. “Barrow. Did you or did you not break into Mrs. Patmore’s room, steal her… intimate garments, and fling them out of young Alfred’s window and onto James’s head?”

Barrow, to his credit, only raises an eyebrow. “Why, no, Mr. Carson, I cannot say that I did, as I was assisting His Lordship with unpacking- actually, Jimmy and Alfred should have been helping with that… But I suppose they could use a break.”

Barrow’s gaze is totally blank yet contemptuous. Jimmy decides that he abhors Barrow’s mocking eyes and slimy voice.

He tells Alfred of his suspicions over dinner. As if the conversation weren’t awkward enough, Mrs. Patmore has refused to leave the kitchen, and a sort of uncomfortable quiet has snuck in in her absence. It’s hard to sit through. Everyone has been shooting Jimmy dirty looks or giggling into their napkins, and Mr. Carson’s left eye has begun to twitch. Everyone except Barrow, who is back to his newspaper, content to ignore the utter circus that was Downton’s staff. Jimmy is entirely sure now of Barrow’s guilt.

“It was him,” he hisses at Alfred, who is digging into his chicken with alarming gusto given that Ivy hasn’t stopped gawking at him since midday.

“Who?” Alfred asks loudly, but his mouth is full and it sounds more like “Mph?”

Jimmy tilts his head in Barrow’s direction, and Alfred, to his credit, gets the hint.

“Who? Barrow?” Alfred says, his voice slightly less booming, but Anna’s started a conversation about something other than drawers so no one hears him.

Jimmy nods furiously, and glances at Barrow again. The man has put down his newspaper and is no buttering half of a biscuit. Obviously guilty.

“Of course. Didn’t you hear him? Why, no, Carson, I cannot say that I did.” Jimmy’s voice takes on a whining quality that bears no actual resemblance to Barrow’s tone.

Alfred cocks his head to the side, and dabs at his chin with a napkin. “I dunno. I can’t imagine he would do that. First of all, he’d have to break into my room to throw it out the window.”

“Nothing he hasn’t done before!” Jimmy says bitterly.

Alfred shrugs a little. “S’pose not. Still, he’d also have to have gotten into the ladies’ rooms, and rifled through Mrs. Patmore’s drawers to find her-“

“Drawers,” Jimmy finishes for him.

Alfred nods. “Right. Somehow I can’t see him wanting to go through women’s pants.”

“He’s plenty perverted enough,” Jimmy mutters, though maybe Alfred has a point.

Jimmy steals a glimpse around the table. Mrs. Hughes is staring right at him with a knowing look in her eye, and Jimmy diverts his gaze and glares at the gravy dish instead.

“Besides,” Alfred continues thoughtfully through his mashed potatoes, “Can’t see why he’d want to play tricks on you in the first place.”

“Why, cause he fancies me?” Jimmy says angrily, quieter than before, since Hughes might hear.

Alfred shakes his head. “Because he’s got close to being fired before, hasn’t he? Why’d he want to risk it again?”

Oh. That makes some sense, actually, and Jimmy can’t believe he’s admitting that. Still, it does bring up an alarming possibility, Jimmy realizes as he watches Carson cut into his chicken, glowering. If Carson honestly thinks this is Jimmy’s fault, he could be fired.

He decides to confront Barrow after dinner, but before he can say “I know it was you,” Barrow beats him to it.

“Would never have thought you’d go for Patmore, James.” Barrow says, “Never mind steal her knickers. Still, to each his own.”

Despite the hint of a laugh in his voice, Barrow is as snide as ever. It’s the James that sets Jimmy on edge, because he knows it’s being used to make Jimmy feel inferior.

Jimmy bristles, and bites back with more anger than precision. “I didn’t steal her drawers. Unlike some people, I have decent senses. I don’t make a habit of breaking into people’s quarters.”

He’s fired the arrow, but it’s missed its mark, as Barrow doesn’t even twitch. “Well. Mrs. Patmore must be very lucky to have a man with such decent senses. Goodnight.”

The remark is more dismissive than biting, but as Barrow leaves, Jimmy feels as if he’s lost a battle he didn’t even agree to fight.

Jimmy slips upstairs before Carson can snag him back to the office. When he reaches his room, he finds that the box of clippings still lies neatly packed under his bed. Rudolph Valentino has been safely tucked away, almost like the day’s events never happened.

Jimmy sighs and slips under the covers. He’ll figure it all out in the morning. As soon as his head hits the pillow, though, Jimmy yelps.

A large, sharp-cornered thing has been placed under his pillow. Cursing, Jimmy twists, and chucks the thing onto the floor, not caring if the resulting boom wakes anyone up. He nestles back into bed vowing revenge on whoever’s been pulling these tricks.

Jimmy’s plagued by dreams of lavender drawers, leprechauns, and decent senses.


	2. in which the paranoia sets in

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "It's a man!" Alfred says suddenly.   
> Jimmy drops his axe. "Where?"

In the morning, Jimmy realizes the thing on his floor is a book- how he couldn’t tell yesterday is beyond him. Grumbling, he pulls off the covers, leaving warmth behind to investigate. 

It’s a children’s book, incidentally, though large. A book of fairytales, open to an illustration of a wolf baring its fangs. Jimmy groans and kicks the book closed. 

He stumbles, bleary-eyed, over to his dresser and looks in the mirror. His hair has been frightfully mussed by sleep, and Jimmy fumbles for his comb for a moment before realizing it’s not in its usual spot. He frowns, muttering to himself, and searches through his drawers. His uniform is there, his books, old letters, soaps, and suit, but there’s no comb- and even worse, no pomade or gel to be seen. 

Now, what greasy-haired devil could possibly have wanted to steal his hair supplies? Jimmy sighs, running a hair through his locks. He’ll have to look a mess today, because he’ll be damned if he borrows anything from Alfred. Jimmy’s mental suspect list is narrowing. It’s either Barrow or it isn’t.

Carson comments on his hair the minute Jimmy walks downstairs. “You’re late, James- What has happened to your head?” 

Daisy starts snickering at the end of the table, and Jimmy sees Ivy step on her foot. He sighs. 

“I’m sorry, Mr. Carson. It seems that someone- whoever snuck into me room yesterday- stole some things. Like a comb. And gel.” 

Luckily, most of the table is listening to Bates tell some harrowing war story, and they don’t pay Jimmy any attention. Barrow is still hiding behind his paper, which angers Jimmy for some reason. 

“That’s a serious accusation, James, especially for someone who is a suspect for stealing Mrs. Patmore’s-“

“It was Barrow!” Jimmy blurts out. Mrs. Hughes chokes on her muffin a bit. 

Carson’s brow practically shoots off his forehead. “Mr. Barrow stole Mrs. Patmore’s drawers?” 

“No, no- I don’t know, maybe,” Jimmy backtracks. “But he broke into my room and stole my pomade!” 

Mrs. Hughes frowns at Jimmy. “Now, don’t go about making accusations! The incident with Mrs. Patmore was likely a silly prank amongst the hall maids. I’ve already spoken to them about it. There’s no need to raise such a fuss.” 

“I also don’t see why Mr. Barrow, of all people, would need to resort to stealing pomade. He most certainly has his own,” Carson adds, and Jimmy huffs. 

“That’s true, Mr. Carson,” Barrow drawls from behind his newspaper, folding it down to reveal his face. “But alas, my own pomade has gone missing as well.” 

Jimmy’s mouth falls open in shock. Under Butler Barrow, usually so slick and put together, has strands of black hair falling over his eyes, shockingly disheveled. It looks soft. 

Why is he thinking about Barrow’s hair being soft? 

“He probably stole mine and then didn’t use any today on purpose, to draw suspicion away from himself!” Jimmy cries, his stomach growling mid-sentence. 

“Sit down and eat, James, and stop making wild allegations. After breakfast, you’ll both borrow Alfred’s gel and freshen up. We can’t have two of our men looking like hooligans.” Carson puts down his fork with a clatter, and Jimmy sits with another glare at Barrow. 

Barrow catches his eye and laughs, looking down at his paper again. His hair falls into his face and Jimmy wants to pin it back up again. And punch him in the face. Somehow, Jimmy manages to get through breakfast without snapping, though Alfred’s jokes about his hair don’t help matters. 

Carson snags him after he’s finished polishing silver. “Listen, James. I don’t blame you for being suspicious of Mr. Barrow. I have no high regard for his morality myself. But he is your superior, and accusing him of thievery during breakfast is simply not appropriate.” 

 

“But he stole my gel!” Jimmy is aware that he is whining. Alfred’s pomade smells oddly musty, and he hasn’t been able to perfect the wave in his hair. 

“If Mr. Barrow has, in fact, stolen any of your personal belongings, you can be sure that he will be dealt with. In the meantime, you don’t have any proof. I would implore you to find some evidence to support your claims.” 

Jimmy blinks at him. 

Carson straightens up, now speaking more loudly. “If you can find no evidence, you must stop your accusations. If not, I’m afraid you must face the consequences.” 

“What are the consequences?” Jimmy cries. Are they going to fire him for having no hair gel? 

Carson regards him with a solemn gaze. “You will have to purchase new pomade yourself.” 

Sadder words have never reached Jimmy’s ears, and it’s all he could do not to sulk the rest of the morning. Somehow, Barrow’s hair still looks fine even with Alfred’s subpar pomade. Jimmy stares at the black mop atop Barrow’s head with a vengeance for most of lunch. He isn’t aware that he looks irate until Lord Grantham, of all people, points it out. 

“James, are you quite alright? You look ready to burst,” Lord Grantham says amicably. All eyes are suddenly on Jimmy. Carson sniffs in displeasure. 

“Ah- no, my lord, my apologies. I’m fine.” 

Lord Grantham gives a half-shrug, and lunch resumes, though Jimmy thinks Lady Edith shoots him an odd look. 

Barrow, for his part, does not display any expression, which is more than could be said for Carson, who appears ready to burst himself. 

The rest of the day passes with little incident, until that night when Jimmy finds a picture of Rudolph Valentino stuck to his dresser mirror with a tack. Jimmy stares at the handsome man in horror. Whoever had snuck into his room knew about Jimmy’s fascination with the actor- of course, as they had searched through his box. Not only did they know, they were reminding him of it. First they had stolen his gel, and now they intended to strike fear into Jimmy’s innermost being. 

It wouldn’t work, though, Jimmy thought. He would find the evidence, like Carson suggested, before any of Jimmy’s secrets were revealed. 

At breakfast the next day, Jimmy notices it before anyone else can. A black-and white photograph of Rudolph Valentino, cut out neatly from a newspaper, has been placed underneath Jimmy’s bowl. 

Jimmy’s face burns, and he snatches the photograph up and tucks it into his shirt pocket. His pomade has been mysteriously returned to his room, and Jimmy sees that Barrow’s hair is similarly back to its normal style. 

Barrow isn’t reading the newspaper today, and Jimmy reckons it’s because there’s a hole cut out of it. 

Alfred’s chewing is unnervingly loud. “Will you quiet down?” He snaps, and Alfred frowns. 

“Good morning to you too, mate. Woke up on the wrong side of the bed?” 

Jimmy grabs a biscuit and goes about buttering it angrily. “Something like.” 

“Well, don’t take it out on me,” Alfred says, and he actually sounds hurt, the big girl. 

Jimmy rolls his eyes and starts a conversation about cars, though he keeps one eye trained on Barrow just in case the other man is up to something. 

It happens next in the gardens. Lady Mary is having a rather boring garden party, Jimmy thinks, but it’s good to see her out and about instead of shut up inside. She looks happy, gossiping and sharing stories about her son with some other noble ladies, and Jimmy’s vaguely content to be serving hot drinks (it is March, after all, and though some of the flowers have begun to bloom it’s still frightfully cold.)

Until one of Lady Mary’s guests- Lady Adeline, or something- drops a napkin. 

“Oh, how silly of me!” She titters, and Jimmy smiles his most charming smile and bends down to pick it up. He sees Lady Adeline blush, and keeps his smile plastered on, handing her a new napkin and keeping the other one behind his back- 

“What’s that, Jimmy?” Lady Mary asks slyly, pointing to a photograph that’s fallen out of Jimmy’s pocket and onto the stone. 

“Uh.” Jimmy says eloquently, and before he has a chance Barrow swoops down and picks it up. “A photograph, my lady,” he says, turning the picture over before handing it to Lady Mary. 

She inspects it with a blasé amusement, before turning the photograph around to show Lady Adeline, who blushes yet again. “Jimmy, why do you have a photograph of Rudolph Valentino in your pocket?” 

Lady Adeline titters again, and this time it’s more annoying than lovely. 

“Well, I-“Jimmy begins, but Barrow cuts him off.

“Quite the ladies’ man, isn’t he, Jimmy? He must be a great idol of yours,” Barrow says smoothly, and Jimmy’s eyes widen in gratitude. Barrow’s painted him a slightly better picture than what it had looked like. 

“Yes, yes, he is- not to say that I’m a ladies’ man-“ 

The other ladies at the table all laugh, and this time it’s Jimmy who’s blushing. Mary turns to her guests. “That’s all right, Jimmy, I’m sure you’re charming enough for all of us. Here you are, then.” 

She gives the picture back to Jimmy, whose face is still burning. He restrains himself from tearing it to shreds right there, and shoves it back in his pocket. 

Barrow is laughing without making any noise, Jimmy can tell by the way his eyes are crinkled up. It’s hideous, he decides, and sulks in silence for the rest of the party. 

Alfred finds the next one while they’re out chopping firewood. 

“What on earth is that?” 

“What’s it look like?” Jimmy asks, annoyed, because though it was cold earlier, it’s too hot now to have a fire, never mind stand outside and chop wood. 

“A picture,” Alfred says, and holds the paper up to the sun to squint.

“That’s likely what it is, then,” Jimmy says and gets back to work. 

“It’s a man!” Alfred says suddenly. 

Jimmy drops his axe. “Where?” 

“In the picture!” 

Oh, God, Jimmy thinks, and snatches the photograph away. It’s the exact same one that’s still in his pocket- Rudolph Valentino, slick black hair and clever smile. 

Jimmy groans and tosses it back into the wood pile. 

“Just keep chopping.” 

Alfred frowns. “Who is it?” 

“Keep chopping!” 

Alfred shakes his head, picking up a piece of wood. “I know you’re still upset about Mrs. Patmore’s drawers. But that weren’t my fault. You don’t need to be so rude.” 

“Shut up, Alfred.” 

There’s silence for a minute, beside from the sound of splitting wood, before Alfred speaks again. 

“The man in that photograph is handsome. D’you think Ivy would fancy me if I were that handsome?” 

Jimmy stifles another groan. “I dunno. Maybe.” 

He thinks he might need to save face, so he adds, “He’s not that good-looking.” 

Alfred laughs. “Sure he is! I’d kill for those looks. Though, I will say, he looks a bit like Mr. Barrow, doesn’t he?” 

The next block of wood hits Alfred directly in the chest. His yelp of pain can be heard from the kitchens.  
…

Barrow catches Jimmy in the doorway to the dining room, two trays in his hands, and Jimmy can’t escape. Barrow’s eyes are bluer up close, and somehow crueler. “Valentino, eh Jimmy?” 

“Sod off.” 

It’s embarrassing he doesn’t have a better retort, and even worse that Jimmy can see the laughter in Thomas’s eyes even as the rest of his face stays blank. The dinner conversation is distracting enough for him, though. 

“I heard it from one of the maids,” Lady Edith is saying, and Lady Mary barely disguises a snort as a cough. 

“Mary, Edith, what are you discussing down there?” Lady Grantham asks sweetly. Jimmy’s always rather liked Cora, though they’ve never exchanged words. 

Edith’s face is pinched in laughter. “I’m not sure I should tell you, Mama. It’s hardly appropriate dinner conversation.” 

Cora sighs. “If it’s not appropriate, I’d rather you saved it for later, then.” 

“Yes, Mama,” Mary says, and her next cough sounds much less believable. 

“Alright, alright, now we’re all dying to know what it is! Out with it, Edith!” Robert says, smiling at his daughter, whose eyes widen. 

“Well, I’m not quite sure I should! After all, it involves…” she cuts herself off. 

Cora leans forward. “It involves who, dear?” 

“Oh, don’t be such a worrywart, Edith, Jimmy won’t mind,” Mary says. 

He won’t?

“A pair of Mrs. Patmore’s drawers were thrown out of a window and landed on poor Jimmy’s head,” Edith explains. 

For the second time that day, the nobles all turn their eyes to Jimmy, who grimaces. 

Lord Grantham and Mary turn the same shade of pink. 

“Oh! Oh my,” Cora says sympathetically, though she hides a smile. “Poor Mrs. Patmore.” 

“Yes, poor Mrs. Patmore,” Lord Grantham agrees. “May I ask how this happened, Jimmy?” 

“Well, my lord, I don’t know. Mrs. Hughes thinks it might have been one of the housemaids pulling a prank.” Jimmy explains. This is the most he’s ever spoken to the family in one day. 

Mary seems absolutely thrilled at this news, though Cora frowns. “How absolutely awful. I’ll talk to Mrs. Hughes about it tonight.” 

Lord Grantham nods, but his shoulders are shaking. “Good idea, Cora.” 

Then, as an afterthought, he blanches. “Carson, don’t tell Mrs. Patmore I laughed.” 

“Certainly not, my lord,” Carson says, and for once he is the only person in the house with a sense of propriety. 

“Now, let’s change the topic. Poor Jimmy looks awfully uncomfortable,” Lady Grantham says, and Jimmy is saved from his torture. His face, by now, is at risk of permanently turning the color of Alfred’s hair.

If only Tom hadn’t been away with little Sybil. He might have recognized his plight and steered the conversation away sooner. What was it, poke fun at the footman day? They get to laugh at the thought of servants pulling silly pranks on each other, while Jimmy has to suffer the humiliation? It’s unfair. 

Jimmy skips dinner and goes to wash up for bed, hoping to sleep off his residual embarrassment, but there’s a picture of Rudolph Valentino in the bath. When he finally climbs into bed, he’s kept awake by thoughts of Barrow pasting photographs of scantily clad men onto his door while he sleeps. It’s a terrifying thought, and Jimmy resolves to make a plan to prove Barrow’s guilt tomorrow. 

This time, vengeance will be his.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What could possibly await poor Jimmy on day four? And what is he plotting…?

**Author's Note:**

> (AN: Rudolph Valentino and Lillian Gish are actors. Jimmy’s clippings are all movie-related. Mrs. Patmore’s pants were, in fact, clean. Sorry this is really quite terrible, I can't seem to figure out Ao3's editing. Next chapter will be considerably longer.)


End file.
